A Kick to the Head Chapter 3
It was hard to say how much time passed. There was nothing to mark its passing except the light filtering through the high window and Sam didn't find that very helpful. All he could really say was that it wasn't night yet.
The door opened. Sam eyed the man warily. The whip was back and he was on the phone again. He paced back and forth in front of the door, slapping the coiled whip restlessly against his thigh as he listened to the phone.
Sam had the sudden, penetrating thought that this wasn't going to go well.
The man said something to the phone, just below the level where Sam could make it out. As he listened to the answer, he stopped pacing and drifted towards them. He looked Sam up and down, then moved to Spike.
"I think you're lying. I think you're stalling," he said. His voice rose with each word. He sounded loud and frustrated.
As he spoke, he tucked his phone into his shoulder and used his free hand to lift one of Spike's eyelids, peering into his unseeing eye and then pressed a finger into the red lash across his chest.
Spike stirred and whimpered, a soft, small sound that Sam almost couldn't hear.
"Please stop," Sam said, without thinking.
It was funny the things you noticed, Sam thought, when everything was going to hell. At the sound of his voice, the man turned to him in a fury. Sam found himself looking at the phone. It was still connected, he realized. Then the man raised his arm and backhanded him.
Sam's world reeled. His lip split and his mouth filled with blood. The room spun and spun and Sam couldn't get it to stop. He felt sick and the nausea built until he had to lean over and throw up all over his boots. He closed his eyes tight and clutched the arms of the chair, trying to hold on to anything stable. The whip cracked and the noise level rose suddenly. Sam couldn't figure out what was happening.
Spike, his mind supplied. Each crack of the whip dragged a cry out of Spike that was half sob, half scream.
He tried to open his eyes and threw up again.
"Stop," he found himself panting. "Please stop. Please just stop." Sam wasn't sure who he was talking to, himself or the man with the whip. Silence fell, broken only by Spike's ragged breathing and Sam retching.
"Disgusting," he heard the man sneer. His footsteps receded and Sam heard him scuffling around beyond the room.
Slowly, Sam's world stabilized. He pushed himself up inch by inch, not daring to move his head one way or another. He stayed still a minute, collecting himself, then blinked.
He opened his eyes just in time to see the man douse him with a bucket of water.
Sam gasped as the water hit him. It was icy cold and what little warmth he had disappeared. It plastered his hair to his head and seeped into his clothes, puddling in his boots. It was like falling through ice into a frozen lake—so cold he found it hard to breathe. Another bucket followed the first, leaving Sam spluttering and thoroughly soaked.
Sam blinked water out of his eyes. He shivered, a bone shaking shiver that wouldn't stop.
Bright white light blinked suddenly, like a camera flash. Sam winced.
When he refocused, the man was leaning against the door jamb, breathing deeply like he was trying to calm down. He clutched the phone in one hand and looked at it every minute or two, like he was expecting a call.
"Don't worry," the man called to him. "The end is near. It will be over soon."
Hurry, Sam thought as he shivered. Hurry guys, please.
Ed was right. It took time to cover that much area. Greg sent Ed, Wordy and Team Three to start banging down doors while he and Jules waited for Donna and Sam's father.
Donna arrived in a spray of gravel. She threw the car into park and was out before the engine had even stopped. Sam's father followed more slowly. General Braddock wasn't a large man, but he moved with authority and a controlled grace that told you he knew how to wield that authority.
"He called," Donna said. "We just lost him." Sam's father nodded.
"I recorded the call, if you'd like to listen," he added. He handed the phone to Jules, who took it and pressed play, holding it out so everyone could hear.
"So, do you have what I want? Do you value your son's life?" a male voice asked.
"I'm working on it." They heard Sam's father answer. "It's going to take some time. The request needs to go through official channels if you don't want any suspicion."
"I don't believe you." The male voice rose into a shout, losing control. "I think you're lying. I think you're stalling."
There was a soft noise they couldn't make out. All four of them leaned in to listen more closely, then they heard Sam saying "Please stop." The call erupted with a sudden crash of noises, the sound of flesh connecting with flesh followed by a wet splatter, then the recording cut out abruptly.
"What was that last part?" Jules asked with a frown. "Sounded like Sam throwing up."
"Yes," his father agreed. "Probably concussed. It wouldn't be his first."
The phone buzzed in Jules' hand with an incoming text.
"Oh god," she said softly. She looked away, pale, and held the phone out for Greg to take.
It was a picture. On the right, Sam sat, tied hand and foot to a metal chair. He was soaking wet, his mouth bright red with blood. He had a head wound and his face was mottled with bruising. He was looking in the direction of the camera, but not at it, with a dazed, unfocused look. Water pooled under him, mixed with vomit.
On the left was Spike. Greg suddenly understood Jules' reaction. Spike was stripped of all but his pants. His bare feet and chest were crisscrossed with lacerations, oozing blood and turning him into a mess of red. A disembodied hand reached over from the edge of the picture and grabbed his hair, holding his head up for the camera, because it was clear Spike was unable to do so himself.
Another text popped up. Don't underestimate me, Greg read.
Donna reached over and tapped the picture, drawing Greg's attention to the IV.
"I see it," he muttered to her. He fumbled with his radio.
"Ed," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "Eddie, we need to speed this up."
"Copy," Ed replied. "How fast are we talking here?"
"As fast as possible."
Greg tuned his radio again, not waiting for Ed's response.
"Winnie, I need EMS on the way. No lights, no sirens. Got it?"
"Copy," she said.
Donna grabbed at the phone and Greg let her take it, glad to be rid of it.
"Those look like whip marks," she said. Sam's father looked at the picture over her shoulder and nodded. Greg hated him a little for it, that he could look at Spike and be analytical.
"We're in farmland," Sam's father offered. Jules shook her head.
"Most farmers only use whips for noise. If they hit something it's usually an accident. These are even and controlled. This guy knows what he's doing."
"Okay," Greg said. "Donna, send the phone recording to Winnie. There's a club that practices with whips in city. Have her see if the organizer can identify the voice."
Jules shot him a look, surprised and incredulous.
"I'm a fount of knowledge," he said to her sourly. On another day, it would have been fun to drop that tidbit on his team and watch them react. Today though, he wanted nothing to do with it.
He sent Jules with Donna to go help knock on doors and took General Braddock with him to meet up with Ed.
Winnie called in about ten minutes later, while they were still driving.
"John Stavish," she said without preamble. "But the club organizer said he hadn't seen him in a little over a month. No priors, but the organizer did say he has a temper. Divorced, has one son. Uhhhh," she paused as she read. "Correction. Had a son. Miles Stavish. I have a date of death for him recorded a month and a half ago."
"Thanks Winnie. Any known addresses nearby?" Greg asked.
"Negative. He's been in the city his whole life."
Greg looked sideways at Sam's father. Things were starting to add up, he just needed a little confirmation.
"Does the name Miles Stavish mean anything to you?" Greg asked him. Sam's father didn't need to say anything. Greg could see the answer written on his face and the way he tensed in his seat.
"Let me guess," Greg went on. "He was part of the terrorist cell. And you led the operation to remove it. Now his father wants revenge on the people who killed his son, and he's taken your son hostage to get it." Yes, it made sense. And Spike had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe Stavish hadn't known which officer was Sam in the confusion after the blast, or maybe he saw an opportunity and took it. But it explained a lot, Greg thought grimly.
"Alright everyone, listen up," he said to his radio.
"There's no negotiation on this one. If you have the solution, then take it."